April 22, 2012

Come to Pass

Things come to pass.

You find yourself grown,
groaning for the wasted time,
the suddenlys, the almosts.

You thumb old diaries,
old aches, old conquests,
old stories, all
fireflies dying in a jar
with only memories of fire.

Things come to pass.

You trade last call
for the smell of his sleeping back.
Secretly, you love
the ball and chain, the simplicity
of grocery lists and laundromats,
chopping vegetables and polishing counters.

You wonder if this is all there is,
or was, and in your coward's heart,
your lover's heart, you choose it.
And you wonder,
what else you might have done,
if you had not.

But everyone wonders. Don't they?

Things come to pass.
It isn't always fun.
It isn't always failure.

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